A Marriage of Convenience
by Dark Rose of Heaven
Summary: In which Kel receives a letter and loses her temper. Short story set after the end of the Scanran War. Totally unrelated to This Heart of Mine, just something quick and fun to get into the KW groove. There can never be too much KW! :D T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

A short fic totally separate from This Heart of Mine, a couple chapters at most :). I wanted to approach the KW relationship from a slightly different angle. Takes place after the Scanran War. **  
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><p><strong>A Marriage of Convenience<strong>

_I._

Kel could feel their eyes on her, even as hers were glued to the expensive, cream-colored parchment in her hands. Their gaze prickled the back of her neck, but she studiously ignored her parents. Instead, she tried to reread the words in front of her. The letters were pristine, perfect, with just the right amount of flourish: the painstaking work of a scribe. The ink was blacker than anything formed from Tortallan hands, with a flat, unreflective finish: Carthaki ink, the secrets of its making guarded jealously, the price far higher than Kel's family could afford.

Baron Piers and Lady Ilane of Mindelan watched Keladry closely as she read the missive a second time. A person not well-acquainted with the family might think that the Baron and his wife were only mildly concerned, and that their twenty-two-year-old daughter felt nothing at all. But this was far from true. Living for six years with a people who regarded emotion as shameful had left its mark on all of them, even after these many years living in Tortall; Piers and Ilane, therefore, held their distress behind polite faces while they waited for their daughter to react.

"Is it… so unexpected?" Ilane ventured at last. Her melodic voice was low for a woman, but no less feminine for it.

Kel's hands trembled as she lowered the letter to her lap, finally meeting her parents' eyes. Behind the crumbling Yamani mask, both could see the confusion that warred within their daughter.

"No. Not so unexpected." Her voice was flat and calm, but the last word held a tremor. "I just didn't think he would ask in this way."

"Then he has made his regard for you plain," Baron Piers said, trying to confirm what Kel was saying – or _not_ saying.

She shook her head slowly, cropped hair brushing her cheeks. "I'm not sure." Kel swallowed, and was still. "We have – we have been training, together. You know that." Their serene nods gave her the strength to continue. "He has become a dear friend to me, but more than that…"

When Kel didn't continue, her father stepped in kindly. "Do not feel you must answer him right away, _qechanta_. It is certainly a difficult decision. And remember that whatever you do, you have our wholehearted support."

At last, Keladry smiled. "That I know." She stood, hands folding the letter into a small square as though detached from the good humor on her face, and bowed briefly to her parents in the Yamani style. "I have always known it, and I thank you. Other parents might not be so obliging."

"Oh, Keladry." Ilane came around her husband's desk, where she had been standing, and pressed a kiss to her daughter's cheek. "We love you so."

"I love you, too." Kel's hazel eyes, fringed with long lashes that even her lovely sister Oranie envied, crinkled at last with worry. "If you will excuse me? I'd like to think about this on my own."

"Of course." Ilane stepped back as her youngest daughter walked out of the room, her back straight and proud in a Mindelan tunic. Without turning, she knew her husband was standing silently from the desk and coming to stand beside her. "We need the money, don't we." It was not a question.

"I couldn't tell her. I will not tell her." Piers' voice hardened. "I will not influence her decision in any way."

"I know." Ilane took her husband's hand and squeezed. "How much did he offer?"

His mouth thinned. "A lot. More than enough of a bride-price for the youngest daughter of a family not even in the Book of Copper."

"I wouldn't have thought it of him."

"What?"

"Buying us off like this." Lady Ilane's eyes flashed, and faded. "How badly do we need the money?"

Piers shook his head. "I don't know, yet. I'm waiting until I hear back from Anders about the state of the grain crop before I do anything. I refuse to borrow money without knowing how much I will have to pay back." He took his wife's chin in one hand, angling her head so that he could kiss her cheek without having to lift himself on tip-toe. A man needed his pride, after all. "And I wouldn't exactly call it 'buying us off,' as you so eloquently put it." He leaned back against the desk, hands pushing aside piles of ledgers and loose paper to brace his weight against the dark teak wood.

"Then what _would_ you call it?" Ilane asked, one eyebrow raised.

Piers resisted the urge to rub his headache away. Experience had taught him it would only make matters worse. "I genuinely believe Wyldon wants to help. If not for our sake, then for Kel's. He has four daughters himself – I am certain he knows the strain it can put on one's budget to have girls at Court. And bride-prices are rare these days, certainly, but not unusual."

Lady Ilane snorted, sounding very unladylike but not caring. "It still doesn't sit right with me."

"Or with me," Piers assured her, smiling wearily. "But two things stop me from calling a halt to all this. First, I believe Kel has the right to decide her own fate. Let her think over his request, and make the decision herself, without our interference. She has earned that much, at least."

When he fell silent, Ilane reached out and laced her hands with his where they rested on the desk. "And the second?"

Piers met her eyes, defeat plain in every line of his body. "As much as I hate to admit it, we really _do_ need the money."

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><p>Kel found him in the cramped office adjoined to his rooms, poring over reports. Her old knight-master stared at her blearily for a few moments when she knocked at the half-open door, not seeming to recognize her, before he waved a hand in her general direction.<p>

"Come in, sit down," Raoul muttered, rubbing grit from his eyes. "What's wrong? You look like that pet monster of yours died instead of just throwing a shoe."

"Peachblossom's fine," Kel retorted, too impatient to dance around the matter. "And he's been seen to. Are you busy? I need to hit something."

Raoul looked up, startled. She was standing, still, her tall, muscled frame taut as a drawn bow, eyes smoldering with contained emotion. He rarely saw Kel like this – indeed, Kel was almost _never_ like this – but he knew what she needed: an outlet.

"Drum hasn't had a good run in a while," he said, carefully neutral as he analyzed her. As predicted, she shook her head firmly.

"I need a joust, Raoul." For a moment her control slipped, and her lower lip trembled before she could control it. "Badly."

"Say no more. I'll take any excuse to escape this wretched report business." Pushing himself away from the desk, Raoul stood, half-expecting her to tower over him. Sitting at a desk for all hours had put a cramp in his spine, and he swore to Jon that it was making him shorter. _As if he would listen_. "Besides," he added, selecting a leather jerkin from a rack on the wall and slipping it over his tunic, "I have more than half a mind to know what's gotten under your skin, if I don't know already."

Startlement flashed across Kel's face, but she didn't press him. Frankly, he was relieved. He didn't want to have to explain the unusual friendship he'd recently – and reluctantly – acquired.

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><p>Peachblossom was restless, and he fidgeted in his stall as Kel tacked him up. Two days ago he had thrown a shoe as Kel took him through a series of complicated jumps, and the Own's farrier hadn't been able to re-shoe him right away. Turning him out to pasture with other horses was out of the question, since the gelding's temperament was not improved with the loss of a shoe, and keeping the enormous beast contained in a stall for two days had strained his patience beyond its limits.<p>

But Kel was thankful for his frisking as she struggled to haul the cinches tight, and wasn't angry when he tossed his head, refusing the bit twice before she finally managed to slip it between his teeth. His energy was hers, and it promised a good, hard joust to come.

Raoul was already saddled and ready when she finally led Peachblossom into the jousting ring. Above her, the sky was overcast, reflecting her mood. Smiling grimly, she swung into the saddle and accepted a lance from the attendant they had requested to attend them. She needed this.

Jousting was, Kel had long ago found, her true love when it came to weapons. The sword she had mastered, the glaive was a joy to wield, but the lance was something different altogether. The sheer power was exhilarating in and of itself, but the pure physicality of it was what sang to her. With Peachblossom between her knees, the saddle high in front and back, lance in hand, she felt incredibly at peace for the first time in almost an hour.

"Let's thrash him," she said as she put on her helmet. Beneath her, Peachblossom side-stepped, dancing with impatience. A fierce joy filled her heart, and Kel hefted the lance, eying Raoul's shield at the other end of the ring. It was time.

"Charge."

Hooves thudded into the dirt, but they left the dust far behind. Kel's knees firmed, her heels jammed down as far as her tendons would allow, and the lance came down. Beneath her, Peachblossom's body gathered and released, muscles bunching and straining as he flew down the lane. The wind keened through her visor as horse and woman moved as one.

Their lances broke with the satisfying shatter of wood on metal, and Kel pulled her horse up almost immediately, bringing him into a half-rear as he danced on his hind legs to keep his balance. But Peachblossom had caught her mood, and his restlessness had become unstoppable. Without orders he trotted to the other end of the lane, high-stepping enough to catch the light on the new metal on his hooves.

Kel could feel the rightness in her grip as she readied herself for another pass. The lances were only practice ones, but with the right leverage, she could pop him from the saddle, she was certain. Months of practice with Lord Wyldon had not been in vain. Her fingers curled around the butt of the lance, feeling the grain even through the leather of her gloves, and suddenly the flood of emotion was curbed.

"_Focus. __**Feel **__the lance, Keladry. It is a part of you, an extension of your very self." Wyldon's hands clamped down on hers until she could feel her bones grinding in response to the pressure. "Any weapon requires drive to wield it, but without focus, you will lose your control. Focus is the key."_

Kel rose in her stirrups, and Peachblossom vaulted down the lane with the speed and strength of a Bazhir racehorse. Drum was only an instant behind, Raoul's lance coming down a heartbeat behind hers. A stray thought – _I have him _– was noted and absorbed without wavering her concentration a hairsbreadth. Her entire identity had escaped the bounds of her body. She _was_ the horse, she _was_ the lance, all breathing and throbbing and thundering together with every fiber of her being.

At the last second, she changed her grip, twisting the lance to catch Raoul's shield squarely with just a hint of an upward thrust.

"_A feather-light touch is all you need. The barest change in how you hold the lance, how your body is pitched, will change the outcome of the pass."_

She could _feel_ her lance bend. It gave just slightly, bowing upwards at its center, and then Raoul was in the air. Peachblossom slowed to a canter, then a trot, side-stepping with a very un-destrier-like elegance as her old knight-master came back to earth with a resounding crash.

Before she realized what she was doing, Kel had jumped from the saddle and was at his side. "Sir? Sir, are you okay?"

"_Mithros_, girl, get off me," Raoul exclaimed, struggling to breathe and laugh at the same time as he waved her away. "I knew you were training with Wyldon, but Goddess! A practice lance!" Sitting up, he pushed up the visor of his helmet so that he could see the awe and delight that warred in his laughing black eyes. "Well done, Kel, well done indeed!" He finally managed to discard the helmet entirely, and groaned when he realized they had an audience. "Mithros, I'll never live this down. Unseated by my own squire!"

"Former squire," Kel corrected him half-heartedly as the collection of knights, Riders, and King's Own that had gathered to watch the joust broke from their dumbfounded silence into roars and cheers of approval. Even Raoul's blackest scowl could not dissuade them.

"I feel so betrayed," he muttered under his breath as he hauled himself to his feet, pointedly refusing Kel's help. "Well, has that satisfied your need to hit something?"

"Very much so, sir," Kel answered, belatedly realizing the ache spreading through her left side. Raoul still hit as hard as ever, even if it had taken a few minutes to fully recognize it. "If you don't mind… I mean…"

Raoul clapped her on the shoulder, eyes meeting hers squarely and soberly. "Let's take a walk, Lady Knight."

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><p>Down to shirts and breeches, the two knights let the soft summer breeze dry their sweat-soaked hair and clothing as they strolled down to the fields where the Queen's Rider's paddocked their tough mountain ponies. It was peaceful here, and the paddocks were hardly occupied; only two Rider groups were currently in Corus, and the trainees were off to Fief Naxen for the summer. The result was a perfectly safe and inconspicuous walk, with no one to overhear any incriminating conversation.<p>

"You said you might know," Kel said finally, after a solid ten minutes of companionable silence. "Do you?"

Raoul looked askance at her, hands thrust into the pockets of his breeches. "Know what? That Wyldon met with your father last week to ask for your hand in marriage? Or that you probably just got the letter today, and you're trying to decide what to do about it?"

Kel stopped abruptly, turning to face her old knight-master. "How did you know _that_?"

"Kel… Alanna, Gary, Padraig haMinch, and I have had a running bet on how long it would take him for three weeks now. It's not exactly a secret."

"_What's_ not exactly a secret, Raoul?"

She was using his first name. Always a bad sign. Another bad sign was the flatness of her voice, and the way her eyes flashed in her cold face. _Never try a woman in a temper_. He dug his hands deeper, uncomfortable and trying to hide it.

"Him. Wyldon. And you. His regard for you, I mean."

To his surprise, she deflated almost instantly, turning away to kick at a stone lying on the road that cut between two paddocks. They watched its tumbling progress with quiet gazes until it fell into a depression and rolled to a clumsy stop.

"I wasn't sure," she said finally. They were walking again, albeit slowly. "It's hard to tell, with him."

"It is, that," he agreed.

She looked up, questioning. "Then how did you guess?"

He hunched his shoulders. "It wasn't entirely a guess."

"He told you."

"…a bit."

"Raoul! For being a hero and a giant killer, you sure know how to dance around a topic," Kel exclaimed crossly. "I don't mean to offend, but last I checked, you and Wyldon weren't exactly the best of friends."

"We're not," Raoul answered flatly. His heavy sigh belied his words. "We weren't. I'm a progressive, I took a girl for my squire – as if that weren't enough, the man's so stiff-necked we can barely exchange polite rejoinders without some verbal sparring."

"But?" Kel prodded.

Raoul shook his head, seeming to disbelieve his own words even as he spoke them: "He asked for my help. In all my years… You don't understand, Kel. He was three years ahead of me, a squire by the time I was a second-year page, but for all that, the Stump was well known for being proud and unbending."

Kel felt a sudden pang at his words. _So Neal isn't the only one to have called him that_, she thought sadly. _Just as the pages used to call me the Yamani Lump_. Still, her thoughts couldn't distract her long from what Raoul was saying. The words were too strange, and she needed all her attention to comprehend them.

"He never asks for anything, Kel. No favors, no requests. I thought I might faint when he came to my room that night, asking for advice. About whether or not to openly court you."

"If this whole letter business was your idea, then my opinion of your skills in romance is severely curbed," Kel said dryly.

"Gods, no! The man _would_ take the stiffest way out," he grumbled. "That _is_ what has you all riled up, isn't it?"

She nodded, feeling a lump in her throat. She swallowed it angrily. "I thought he'd at least have the decency to ask me to my face." A pause. "What's _your_ opinion? Do you… approve?"

Raoul shook his head. "Somehow, I do. He's the last man I would have thought to win you over – or try, at least, since clearly he's failing – but somehow it makes sense. You're so similar, so stoic and self-assured, but you also complement each other. You soften him, I suppose."

They walked in silence for a little more until Raoul finally spoke again. "What are you going to tell him?"

"I never wanted a noble marriage," Kel said suddenly, as if she hadn't heard the question. "What does he expect? That I hang my shield on the wall and start having babies? Because I won't! I don't care if he _is_ the last Lord of Cavall," she added, spiteful.

"He's not," Raoul remarked, startling her. "He has a younger brother. Trevelan of Cavall."

Kel racked her memory, but nothing surfaced. "I've never heard of him."

"You wouldn't," he agreed, laughter in his voice. "No one talks about him much."

"Why not?"

"Wouldn't try for his knighthood. Refused, actually. His father finally disowned him when he left home to become a Player, though people said the old lord was just looking for an excuse. Trev was never one to cater to his betters."

Kel scrutinized his face unashamedly. "You were friends, weren't you?"

"Goldenlake and Cavall are neighboring fiefs," Raoul explained. "Trevelan was my age – we grew up together, you might say. When he was disowned, he came to me for help. Wyldon was livid, of course, but he couldn't risk his father's wrath by helping his brother. I don't think he ever forgave me for being there for Trev when he wasn't."

"Until now," she remarked innocently.

"Ha! Perhaps." Raoul frowned. "When did this conversation stop being about you and Wyldon?"

Kel shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I've made up my mind." She grinned at his pleading expression. "You're channeling Neal with that look, and believe me, I've resisted his pouting before."

Raoul threw up his hands. "After all my sage advice, what do I get? A scold! Come, Kel, not even a hint?"

"Not a one," she answered, eyes glittering mischievously. "Race you back to the palace!" Ignoring his complaints that he was an old, wretched knight who'd just been soundly thrown into the dirt by an unforgiving former squire, Kel lengthened her stride to outdistance him up the hill to the palace.

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><p><strong>Opinions? I'm trying a less direct approach than THoM, and it's kind of refreshing :). It's fun to explore the different personalities and relationships here. Please review and tell me what you think! DR<br>**


	2. Chapter 2

_Fixed Tobe's death to Dom's :P. Sorry Dom-lovers! I need Tobe later on more than I need Dom. Cheers!  
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><p><strong>A Marriage of Convenience<strong>

_II._

_Four months earlier_

"It was possibly the most barbaric thing I've ever seen." Jon's face made an elegant moue, and somehow he managed to pull it off. "I hope never to have to deal with Lord Cyd again."

"How long was he dead?" Raoul wanted to know.

The King scowled at him. "You act as if you're sorry you missed it," he remarked. "Trust me, a head that's been detached from its body for two-odd weeks is not something anyone should be wishing to see."

"But it _was_ Maggur." That was Gary, the stickler. "You're certain?"

"Unequivocally."

"Scanrans are known for being sticklers for that sort of thing," Sir Myles pointed out. "You should really be grateful he didn't bring the head back in pieces. Eyes, nose, ears, scalp…"

"Yes, thank you, Myles, you've made yourself quite clear," Alanna cut in acidly. Her adoptive father chuckled at her tone, but backed down. "So where's the treaty, Jon? Stop holding out on us. That's what we really want to see – hang this talk of rotting heads."

"Patience, oh Champion mine," Jon said drily. "It's just here. Signed by all fourteen chieftains, if you please, with Lord Cyd signing for the Rathhausak clan." The parchment unrolled with a satisfying slap, and the small gathering of commanders leaned closer to inspect it. All fourteen signatures were written clearly at the bottom, with the conditions of the treaty outlined in organized points above.

"We're getting two hundred miles of the Vassa back, with assurances of continued trade," Jonathan said, describing the basics of the agreement. "There's a solid agreement of twenty years of absolute peace, and after that we can renegotiate."

"Renegotiate?" snapped another commander. Meaningful looks were exchanged as flashing brown eyes met the King's blue. "We beat them back for four long, gods-cursed years, and the best they can do is a promise to _renegotiate?_"

"It's better than anyone else has been able to do for the past century or so, my Lord Wyldon," King Jonathan answered, voice deceptively calm. "And two hundred miles of bank is not to be sniffed at." Though nothing specific was voiced, it was a rebuttal, and everyone knew it.

"It doesn't seem right, Your Majesty," agreed a new voice, the only other feminine one in the room. "We lost too many good men and women to back down so easily. What, may I ask, are the terms of the renegotiation?"

More looks exchanged. Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan had never been quite so direct with her king before, especially when backing up a man who had not always been friendly to her.

Jonathan turned his piercing blue eyes on her, but her steady gaze didn't flinch. _Not the half-timid, half-brazen squire of seven years ago._ "Specific conditions must be presented that give proof for cause of breaching the agreed-upon peace," he said finally, before the shifting quiet became too uncomfortable. "In regards to trade or raider skirmishes, all reasons are null and void and must be decided between our countries before a court. Does that satisfy you, Lady Keladry?"

She didn't respond in words, but her stiff bow said she wasn't satisfied one bit. But, of course, she submitted to his superiority, and gradually the debriefing continued. Only two knights did not proceed to voice their opinions, but their words were hardly missed.

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><p>"That wasn't necessary, Keladry."<p>

She paused, startled, as he came toward her out of the gloom of the dimly-lit hall. "On the contrary, my lord, it was entirely necessary," she said, turning to face him more fully. "Somebody has to remind him that royalty can't walk all over we common nobles." She spoke partly in jest, and was rewarded with the deepening of the shadows to one side of his mouth. A small, reluctant half-smile: a victory.

"He does his best, I believe," Wyldon replied blandly, emotion concealed once more. "Though I must agree with you. We lost too many to concede so readily."

"I think he just wanted it to be over," Kel said, surprising both of them with her defense of Jon's decision. "We all did."

"That is true enough." He paused, awkwardly, and his eyes fell to her tunic. "I heard about your friend. I am sorry – I know you were very fond of him."

Kel bit her tongue to keep the shock off her face. Dom's death still ate at her heart, and the black tunic displayed that mourning publicly, but she was still surprised to find sympathy here. "It must seem trivial to you, sir, after your own loss," she said quietly. Somber as ever, his own mourning clothes hardly seemed out of place. But the weight of it dragged at him, carving lines in his face that hadn't been there before, and his stiff manner had become stiffer in the months since his wife's untimely death.

"Grief is never trivial," Wyldon remarked. His voice was steady, but his eyes glittered wetly in the light. "Whether for a horse, a friend, or… a wife."

Kel's mind scrambled for another topic – anything to keep her own tears at bay – but nothing came to her. She was so desperate to keep from showing emotion that she flinched when a droplet rolled down her cheek and fell to the black linen of her tunic, leaving a small mark. It was with great relief that she latched onto something to say. "When are you relieved of your command?"

Just as relieved as she was, he pulled a roll of parchment from his tunic and held it up. "Officially, tomorrow. Sir Alanna will oversee the last of the troops, but she leaves in a week." He cleared his throat gruffly. "And yourself?"

She touched the orders thrust into her belt with trembling fingers. "Tomorrow. I don't know what I'm going to do, with no New Hope to keep me occupied. Corus will be tame in comparison."

Another smile, wry and faint, but there. "After Scanra, no doubt everywhere will seem tame. Do you not return to Mindelan?"

She shook her head, crossing the hall to his side as Alanna and Duke Baird left the King's temporary office. Violet eyes considered them briefly, but the lady knight didn't speak. "My family is in Corus at present, and I will join them in our townhouse there," Kel explained once the mages had passed. "It's just as well – Mindelan is too quiet this time of year."

He bowed his head in agreement. "As is Cavall."

"You will be in Corus, then?"

"Yes. My youngest is there, being presented at Court by my sister."

Surprising him as well as herself, Kel laughed. "Do you intend to defend her against the onslaught of admirers?" Almost immediately she snapped her mouth, mortified. "Forgive me, sir, I…"

His short chuckle stopped her. "Indeed, that is exactly my intent. She is like her mother – too kind and gentle to refuse attention. If I'm not there, I'm certain she will be swamped, unable to extricate herself. She is more accustomed to the company of pups and horses than cocky young upstarts."

"Much like her father, perhaps," she murmured, and stopped short. "Forgive me, my lord, I don't know what's come over my tongue."

"You long ago earned the right to be frank with me, Keladry," he said, smiling faintly. "Please, don't apologize. I will only ask for forbearance on your part when your address of me begins to resemble Queenscove's."

A short bark of laughter escaped her before she could contain it. "I don't think I could bring myself to call you 'your worship,' sir."

"I'm glad to hear it," he replied mildly. "Keladry – might I ask a favor?"

"Anything, sir," Kel answered, surprised by the request.

His brown eyes crinkled with amusement. "If the soldiers' drunken parties every night are any indication, I'm sure our new assignments will be a long time in coming. Perhaps, while we are in Corus for the summer, would you care to instruct me in the use of the glaive? I feel the distinct need to keep myself busy."

Kel only just kept her mouth from dropping open. Lord Wyldon, former training master and conservative stickler, wanted to learn the glaive? "Of – of course, sir!" she said finally, trying to conceal her shock. Then something delightful occurred to her. "But if I may request something in return?"

"Certainly."

"I shall give you glaive lessons if you agree to tutor me in jousting," she said, braced for a refusal. He was her training master no longer, and doubtless he wasn't eager to take up such an activity again. But, to her infinite surprise, the polite curiosity on his face brightened into something resembling eagerness.

"I would like nothing better," he assured her, inclining his head. "It would be an honor. If you will excuse me, Lady Knight?"

She bowed, and they parted, she for her rooms, he for his office. As Kel paced down the hallway, a smile grew inside of her until she could no longer contain it, and it lit up her face in a grin. After more than three long, grueling years running a refugee camp and fort, she was finally going to take up her old love again: the lance.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Marriage of Convenience**

_III._

They met in one of the finer ale-houses in Corus, she in an elegant gown of deep blue, he in his usual dark, plain garb. He recognized her from behind, dark brown curls spilling down her back as she allowed an attendant to take her cloak. Walking up behind her with the silent steps of a cat, he leaned close and put a hand on her lower back.

"Good evening."

She jumped briefly, and looked up to frown with mock severity. "Wyldon, we aren't children anymore. How many times must I remind you?"

"It's good to see you too, Ella," he answered, bending to kiss her cheek. Her attempted scold faded into a pleased smile.

"I _am_ glad to see you, Wyldon. You look… well."

"No need to hesitate, sister. I know quite well how I look," he informed her, offering his arm. "Where are we sitting?"

"I made reservations," Lady Elasabenne said quietly, leading him to a dimmer corner of the room. Here the partitions between tables were higher, and soft carpet underfoot muffled the talk that rose and fell around them. At one table, a middle-aged man sat uncomfortably, dressed in borrowed, ill-fitting finery. He was tall and lanky, with dark brown hair that silvered at the edges, brushed just so to disguise a receding hairline. He stood as they approached, long hands smoothing his tunic nervously, brown eyes watching them with unease.

Wyldon stopped before the table, bringing Elasabenne to a halt alongside him. She could feel his arm tensing beneath her hand, and she squeezed gently. Then, in a disbelieving whisper: "_Trevelan?_"

"Hello, Wyldon."

Elasabenne stepped aside discreetly as her two older brothers faced one another. For a moment she regretted not renting a private room for the evening, but her fears were unfounded. Maintaining his composure, Wyldon held out his hands to clasp forearms with the brother he hadn't seen in more than twenty years. It the candlelight it was hard to tell, but Elasabenne thought she saw wetness glittering on their faces as the two men parted.

"How long are you in Corus?" Wyldon asked immediately.

Trevelan smiled. "For as long as you like. I wasn't sure what my reception would be, so I didn't exactly prepare…" He plucked at the fall of lace at his sleeve – a little old-fashioned, but not entirely out of place with the rest of his unusual ensemble.

"You must stay for as long as you wish," his older brother insisted. "We've two decades to catch up on." He turned to his sister, part accusing, part fond. "What hand did _you_ have in all of this, Ella?"

"I was paying my respects to the Mother at the local temple a week ago, and we ran into each other," Elasabenne explained as she settled herself at the table. "We used to write, occasionally, but since he was never in the same place for longer than a week, it had been several years since we'd spoken, and I hadn't seen him since Margarry was born. But I recognized him immediately." She squeezed Trevelan's hand. "Since I knew you would be in Corus very soon, I persuaded him to stay and see you."

"It didn't take much convincing," Trevelan admitted. A server came to provide wine, and then he continued. "I always followed your career, Wyl, and when I heard the war was over, and you a hero, I was half-hoping to run into you when you returned to Corus."

"I'm hardly a hero," Wyldon said, brow furrowing in annoyance. "Just because a man almost dies trying to keep a fool boy of a ducal house from getting himself shot…"

"Duke Baird is well-loved by the people, and that makes them quite well-disposed towards his son – not to mention that the Queenscove boy is the last remaining heir," Lady Elasabenne reminded him. "You weren't just saving a fool boy, you were saving one of the oldest bloodlines in Tortall."

"And he's not bound to forget it soon," added Wyldon acidly. "The boy's never liked me, but now he's got this notion that he owes me a debt, never mind that he saved me in turn with his Gift. If there's one thing a young knight hates, it's being in debt to an old training master he despises."

Trevelan barked a laugh, though he quickly muffled it when the people at a nearby table gave him disapproving looks. "Why, you should have been the Player, Wyldon, not me! Listen to you, putting words in the poor boy's mouth."

"Believe me, Trev, you wouldn't say that if you knew Nealan," Wyldon replied drily.

"Not to mention," his irrepressible sister went on, "you had a hand in the rescuing of several hundred refugees from beyond the Scanran border, _and_ the death of Blayce the Gallan."

"_Talking_ of putting words in mouths, Ella, you are being ridiculous," Wyldon said firmly. "That was all Keladry's doing."

"Ah! The infamous Lady Knight," Trevelan mused. "I've heard good things about her. And bad, of course, but I prefer to be optimistic."

"She deserves none of the censure she receives, and all of the praise," the knight murmured, looking down into his wine-glass. It was because of this that he didn't see his brother and sister exchange knowing looks. Elasabenne cleared her throat.

"Wyldon, before you drift away from the conversation entirely, I was wondering when you're going to find another wife."

Caught mid-sip, Wyldon choked, nearly spitting his wine onto his sister's lovely dress. At the last moment he swallowed, and pressed his handkerchief to his mouth, coughing hoarsely. "_What?_"

Trevelan laid a hand on his brother's arm. "I know you still mourn for Vivienne, Wyl, but think. You have no male heir. Even if I hadn't been disowned from the family and the fief, I could never become the Lord of Cavall."

"Your lands will go back to the Crown if you die without an heir," Elasabenne added. "It's been almost a year, Wyl. She's in the Peaceful Realms, and you have a duty to your people."

Wyldon pulled away, eyes flicking between the two earnest faces before him. "You two are worse than a couple of old fishwives gossiping on Market Day," he grumbled. "And who, pray tell, am I to wed? There aren't any suitable widows, currently, and what young lady fresh at Court would give a copper piece for an old man?"

"You're not even fifty yet, Wyldon, so stop being melodramatic," Elasabenne chided him. "And it's not as if your only choices are old biddies and young, flighty girls fresh from the nursery. There are plenty of sensible, pretty, well-grounded women at Court who are currently unattached, and would be perfectly amicable to marrying a wealthy, distinguished war hero."

"Name two," Wyldon said flatly. "_Besides_ yourself."

Elasabenne laughed merrily. "Recall, brother, that I _do_ have a husband, and am therefore not looking for any kind of man, war hero or not. And I can do better. I can name three."

"Ha! Then do so, pray. I am most eager to know the names of these wonderful girls."

Elasabenne fluttered her eyelashes in thought. "There is Althera of Elden."

"Too bookish," Wyldon said dismissively. "Besides, she doesn't want to get married. She's more in love with her scrolls and history than any flesh and blood."

"Then perhaps Esperille of Pearlmouth?"

"Too flirtatious. She's growing into an old maid, and she knows it, so she tries to compensate by attempting to bed every wealthy man who comes within sneezing distance."

Elasabenne just barely restrained a peal of laughter. "My goodness, brother! You are very picky all of a sudden."

"My complaints against the ladies are not unfounded," Wyldon replied irritably. "You said you could name three, Ella."

There was a slightest pause. Then, tilting her head archly and swirling the wine in her glass, she said innocently, "Keladry of Mindelan?"

Wyldon slammed his wineglass on the table, shattering the stem and making his siblings jump. He watched idly as the deep redness slipped across the polished table to drip in his lap, but his tone of voice belied the iron control of his face. "Marry a girl scarcely older than my youngest daughter?"

"She's in her early twenties, Wyldon, hardly a girl any longer," Trevelan said.

_Somebody's done his research_, Wyldon thought suspiciously.

"And it's not as though it hasn't been done before," Elasabenne added, tsking as she laid napkins over the spill. "Did you cut yourself?"

"No. Ella, you did this on purpose."

A white hand flitted to a whiter throat, a young lady's gesture of innocence. "Did what?"

A humorless smile appeared on Wyldon's face. "Mention the two women least likely to meet my approval before naming Mindelan."

"You called her Keladry moments ago," Trevelan murmured, drawing patterns on the tabletop with the drops of wine Elasabenne hadn't mopped up.

Increasingly frustrated, Wyldon clamped down on his desire to leave the table until he calmed down. He'd forgotten how well his siblings could rile him when they set their minds to it. "Trev, Ella… it's impossible. I was her training master. People would talk…"

"And why? You've never given any reason for people to suspect you of being lecherous," Elasabenne reasoned. "Everyone knows you loved Vivienne. Everyone knows what an unbending conservative you are. And if anyone _did_ lower themselves to claim she slept with you to earn her knighthood, well, challenge them to a joust."

Wyldon sighed, massaging his eyelids with the heels of his palms. "Jousting is not the answer to every ill in this world, Ella, as much as I would like for that to be so."

Trevelan chuckled. "All we're trying to say is, she would be a good match. She's healthy and strong, she's independent and wouldn't require you to be fawning and doting…"

"There's a reason she has no husband, or even a beau," Wyldon interrupted.

Elasabenne jumped in. "No one's brave enough to approach a lady knight, that's why."

"_No_, it's because she doesn't want to have to bear children and deal with the responsibility of a fief and a husband who requires heirs," Wyldon gritted out. "Which is _exactly_ what you seem to think I need."

"Wyl…" Trevelan sighed and sat back, scratching his chest where the lace at his collar irritated the skin. "We just want you to be happy. And frankly, the time you spend with her _has_ been noticed, as has the… enjoyment… you seem to reveal during those times."

"Gossips will be gossips," Wyldon muttered from behind his hands.

Elasabenne decided she was tired of this nonsense, and took her brother's hands in hers so that she could look him directly in the eye. "If there _were_ no gossips, if heirs weren't a problem, if you weren't so damned stiff-necked… would you ask her to be your wife?"

There was a long, interminable pause. "Yes. Yes I would, damn you for asking." Wyldon extricated his hands and leaned back, not bothering to acknowledge an attendant who finally came to clear up the spill and the broken glass. "Satisfied?"

Trevelan and Elasabenne exchanged another meaningful look. "Perhaps," she said, archly. "But it remains to be seen, is Keladry satisfied?"

* * *

><p><strong>*snerk* I love Trevelan and Elasabenne together. They're so devious! Hopefully the jumping around isn't confusing anyone. The third section is in early summer, when everyone's been released from duty and has come back to the capital. Still about three weeks before Kel gets her letter. Let me know what you think! I'm eager for your opinions ;) DR<br>**


	4. Chapter 4

**You know you've been writing too much TP fanfiction when you pass a sign on the road that says "Stump Grinding" and you immediately think of Wyldon... *sigh* I admit the first part of this was somewhat inspired by "The Art of Jousting" by Rockstar with a Vendetta, but any insinuations are entirely (or mostly) accidental ;). This is still a couple weeks before Kel gets her letter.  
><strong>

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><p><strong>A Marriage of Convenience<strong>

_IV._

"No, sir, you're holding it wrong. It's not a staff. You have to compensate for the weight of the blade."

He stifled the urge to glare at her, and obediently fixed his hand positions. Watching the twitching muscles in his clean-shaven face, Kel struggled not to laugh just as hard as she struggled not to gloat. Finally, after years of torture under this man, she was given the opportunity to return the favor. _And he'll repay me in kind a hundredfold,_ she thought wryly. Two hours for glaive, two hours for jousting, an hour in between to rest… The pace would be interesting, she decided as she circled her old training master, evaluating his stance. They'd been at this for half an hour already – teaching him how to stand, how to brace himself for an attack versus taking the initiative, how to hold the staff correctly – and she could tell it was maddening him.

"All right, that's enough of that," she said at last. Then, barking, "Don't relax! Did I say you could relax? At attention, probationer!"

The look on his face was priceless, and she couldn't stop herself. Kel doubled over laughing, clutching her stomach as the sound echoed around the practice court. Against his will, he felt the corners of his lips tugging, pulling at his cheeks, breaking his mask into a smile, then a grin, then laughter. People in the vicinity slowed or stopped, wondering what had sent the stoic Lord Wyldon into such convulsions, but he wasn't paying attention. He was too busy trying to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Okay," she gasped, straightening finally, pushing her hair out of her face. "Okay. That's enough of that. Watch." She picked up her own practice glaive – his was borrowed, belonging to Princess Shinkokami who had gladly lent it over – and readied herself. "You know this routine. High, middle, and low blocks. They are the simplest, all variations of Lotus in Flight."

Wyldon's eyebrows quirked. "The what?"

She bit her tongue to keep the blush off her cheeks. "The Yamanis are… poetic. There's different names for every position. Don't worry, it gets worse."

"Oh, joy," he muttered, and mimicked her stance in preparation for the high block.

The practice continued, Kel taking too much delight in the slow, methodical pace she set for her student. It was with much trepidation that she readied Peachblossom for the tilting practice. If the way his teeth were grinding by the end of their first session was anything to go by, she was really in for it. _Thank Mithros for bruise balm_, she thought. Then, _I hope I don't break anything_.

However, to her (not entirely unpleasant) surprise, the first hour wasn't even spent with a lance. Instead he sat her on her horse and made the rounds, criticizing and snapping at her to pick up her shoulders, drop her heels, knees _against_ the horse, Mindelan, I can see daylight! Not sure whether to laugh or scream, Kel obeyed. Perhaps the most shocking thing that happened that first session was when he smacked her on the hip with his gauntlets, stinging her right buttock. "Sit _up_, Mindelan!" he barked. "Put your weight forward. Pelvis against the ridge of the saddle. It's not going to bite you." Flushed bright red and refusing to acknowledge it, Kel obeyed.

At last she was allowed to actually hold the lance. But he wasn't done yet. Kel had always held the lance one way, and she was comfortable with it – it was how she had won so many jousts long before coming under Wyldon's tutelage. But she was beginning to learn that there were endless variations of that grip, endless ways to hold and control the long shaft of wood, and he drilled her in them for nearly half a bell until her wrist was shaking with exertion and her arm felt like it was made of lead.

"Very well, Mindelan," he said at last, crisp and precise as always. "We have time for a couple of passes now, I think."

Kel only just succeeded in masking her horror. _I'm exhausted!_ She wanted to shout. _I haven't even done one pass and already I feel ready to drop!_ But the look in his eyes – cool, intent appraisal, and maybe just a hint of mockery – decided her.

"Yes sir," she answered, returning his challenging gaze with one of her own.

It was the first of many mornings spent together. As predicted, the Court was occupied with parties and balls and sleeping in until noon, which provided them ample time to pit themselves against one another. Gradually as they improved at their respective weapons, the sessions became longer, harder, faster. They would only stop when the sun had finally past its mid-point, and their growling stomachs reminded them it was time for lunch.

It was two weeks later when Kel was confronted in the women's baths. Too tired even to eat, she had left the tilting field and gone straight to the bathhouse, eager to rinse of the sweat and dirt caked into her skin. The hot water stung the colorful tapestry of cuts and bruises – though she hadn't fallen today, there had been plenty of falls in the days before – and she hissed through her teeth in discomfort. After a blissful few minutes of just soaking up the delicious heat, she finally stood and reached for a bar of soap and a cloth.

"My lady knight! Forgive me, but – have you been jousting with Lord Raoul again?"

She turned, surprised, and laughed aloud. The two women who had approached her were familiar, though she did not know their names. They had been the same two who had expressed concern over her bruises as a squire, thinking she had been beaten by a man. She had seen them around Court since, but couldn't remember ever being formally introduced. They had the same nose, the same full lips – sisters, perhaps? – although one had dark blonde hair that curled wetly on her shoulders, and the other kept her dark brown hair in a damp chignon at the back of her neck.

"My ladies, we meet again," she said, smiling. "And to answer your question – no, I wasn't jousting with Lord Raoul today."

The blonde raised shapely brows, eyes twinkling merrily. "No? Then perhaps we ought to recommend you to the temple of the Mother after all?"

Kel laughed as she shook her head. "No, I fear I've only myself to blame. It's my own fault that I asked for jousting lessons from Lord Wyldon."

Identical expressions of surprise graced their faces at the same time, and the younger – the dark-haired one – blurted, "You've been tilting with Father?"

At Kel's blank expression, the blonde smiled kindly. "Forgive me, my lady. My name is Sunarine, and this is Margarry. Wyldon of Cavall is our father. We only just arrived at Court, so we didn't know he'd been giving lessons."

"Oh! I see; and I'm just Kel," she added, making a small, masculine bow that sent them giggling.

"Pleased to meet you," Margarry murmured shyly. Her face was sweeter than her sister's, with twinkling gray eyes, and Kel found herself thinking suddenly of Owen. "He doesn't go easy on you, does he?"

Kel shook her head ruefully. "No, he doesn't. He's not as big as my lord Raoul, but I swear he hits harder."

"Perhaps after you bathe, we could help you with your bruises," Sunarine suggested. "Frankly, I'm not certain how you managed to bruise _there_, but it's probably going to be hard to reach with bruise balm."

Surprisingly, Kel wasn't at all embarrassed by the offer – or the tease. Years of close quarters in Haven and then New Hope had nearly rid her of self-consciousness when it came to being nude in front of others. "Thank you – I certainly could use the help," Kel admitted. So, when she had soothed her aching muscles to her satisfaction, she patted herself down gingerly and submitted to the Cavall sisters' ministrations.

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><p><strong>No slash here, people, just friendliness :). Hope you enjoyed it!<br>**


	5. Chapter 5

**The last installment! :) I hope you enjoyed this little short story. I'm probably going to do a little follow-up, called "Kel Takes a Tumble," and it's probably going to be rated M, since I have yet to dabble in smut of any kind and would like to attempt it ;). Anyway, the first half of this chap is pre-letter, and the second half is post-letter, just so there's no confusion! Thanks for reading and reviewing, especially to _HuginnsMuse, xstormchildx, EmiRose, BlueLion, spazzysassyangel, Blackdraumdancer, SarahE7191 _and _SarcasticLoner_! 3 DR**

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><p><strong>A Marriage of Convenience<strong>

_V._

"Do you miss her, still?"

He swallowed before replying. "Yes. Very much."

Relying solely on instinct, forgetting propriety and decorum, she reached out and took his hand. "I'm sorry."

She wasn't sure how it happened. One moment they were standing, quiet, on the curtain wall, looking out over Corus, hands clasped in innocent friendship and comfort. Then, slowly, she became aware of the callouses on his fingers, matching her own, the scar across his palm, the way the third knuckle on his middle finger was swollen with exercise and a long-ago wound. She could feel the pulse in his thumb where it laid across the back of her hand. They were hot, still, and slightly damp with sweat after their early-morning run, but his palm was dry and cool in hers.

Something sweet, familiar, uncurled in her chest, and she blinked hard as the sun broke out from the clouds.

_**Two Weeks Later**  
><em>

The tournament had begun the day before, and Kel was grateful for the reprieve. Too much time on her hands meant too much time to think and mull and fret over Wyldon's letter. This, at least, would provide distraction. It wasn't until the third day that the Idea came.

His name was on the lists, available during the last three rounds of the day. She smiled grimly as she gave her name to the clerk. As she walked away, the little man affixed her name and arms to the public board - _Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan - _next to another:_ Lord Wyldon of Cavall_. Her heels struck a swift beat on the road as she marched to the stables to tell Peachblossom the news.

At first he was reluctant, when she'd begun to tell him her plan. He didn't like the idea of a stallion getting in the way of the unique, temperamental, tender relationship he had with his mistress. But once she explained exactly what she meant to do, the strawberry-roan destrier tossed his head and snorted in approval. He would get one last chance to prove his mettle before giving his mistress over to another protector.

The stands were crowded, even so late in the day. It was well-known by now that Lord Wyldon had been giving the lady knight private jousting lessons, and everyone – especially the court gossips – turned out to witness the joust. Kel waited on Peachblossom, watching the match before her. Tobe should be arriving any minute now, as per instructions. She looked down at her gauntleted hand, opening her fingers to observe the handkerchief there. A blue and cream double-border had been embroidered around the edge, and her name stitched elegantly in one corner: Lalasa's work, of course. Her hands were too battle-scarred and calloused to wield a needle with any kind of the required delicacy.

"My lady!" Tobe darted under the barrier and came over to her, eyes dancing with mischief. "They're about to announce the winner. Should I go now?"

"Yes," she replied, bending to hand him the handkerchief. "You remember what you're supposed to say?"

"Of course I do," the boy said stoutly. He bowed, cheeky. "Good luck, milady. I hope he flies today."

"So do I," Kel murmured, returning her gaze to the field as the two previous knights left, leaving the lanes open. Her plan hinged on being able to give voice to her own decision, not letting him win by default. Glancing to the stands, she saw her parents sitting calm and collected amid the festivities. She allowed herself to crack a smile. They knew her plan, and had approved. _Goddess guide my lance today_, she prayed, breaking her tradition of not appealing to the gods for assistance in the lists. Today determined the rest of her life, and she wasn't about to leave it up to chance.

The herald approached with lance and rules, but she barely paid him any mind. Her eyes were fixed on the knight at the other end of the field, bending to hear what a young hostler-lad had to say.

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><p>Lord Wyldon liked to be alone before a match, so the approach of the young boy irritated him. He smoothed his features, however, as he recognized the young Tobeis Boon. What could he possibly want?<p>

"Begging your pardon, m'lord, but I bring a message from the Lady Knight," the boy said, breathless as he bowed. "If I may?"

"Go on, boy," Wyldon said gruffly, trying not to look at the woman on the other side of the jousting field. He didn't want her to see the hope on his face. He hadn't spoken with her or seen her since he'd sent the letter five days ago, though he had lingered around the practice courts every morning.

"The Lady asks your indulgence in a small wager, my lord," Tobe said, standing tall and puffing his chest to make himself heard above the buzz of the crowd and the crack of pennants whipping in the breeze. "She says, do you unseat her or take the victory at this joust, that she will accept your proposal without question. However, if she does unseat you or take victory over you, that she may give you her reply from her own mouth, be it yea or nay, with whatever conditions may apply to them as such." Formal message delivered, he bowed again, and offered the scrap of white. "She also bids you wear her token, if your feelings be true and if you accept these conditions, my lord."

Wyldon struggled not to laugh at the genius of it. Wearing the token of the very knight he was to tilt against was pure mischief, and yet it served its purpose. If he refused, he would be telling her that he didn't take his own proposal seriously, and didn't intend to be true or fair to her in the future. By wearing it, however, he declared his sentiments to the world, and set himself up for a good deal of embarrassment at the hands of the assembled Court. _She's asking you to prove yourself, man. So do it._

With a solemn face affixed over the emotions running hot beneath his skin, Wyldon bent further from the saddler and allowed Tobe to tie the token of his lady to his upper arm, just below the pauldron piece that protected his shoulder. Straightening, the token clearly visible to the crowd, he placed his helmet over his head and tried to ignore the deathly silence that fell over the stands.

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><p>Kel felt breathless as she watched him bend to let Tobe affix her handkerchief to his arm. It was the traditional place for a knight to carry the token of his love, as opposed to the less formal belt or lance-tip. The Mindelan colors were clearly displayed for all to see. <em>He did it. He chooses me over the approval of the Court.<em> Her heart soared, and she didn't bother to hide the wide smile that stretched across her face as she placed her own helmet on her head.

"All right, Peachblossom," she murmured as the herald prepared to announce the match. "Here goes nothing."

The flag fell.

"Charge."

Kel resisted the urge to whoop as Peachblossom surged forward, body thundering like an avalanche down the lane. The lance was feather-light in her hands, and she lowered it with precision, feeling the comfortable mass of it firm against her ribs. Through the slit in her visor she watched her opponent rushing toward her at a terrific rate, and rose slightly in the saddle, angling her wrist and squeezing hard.

They came together with a crash, and Kel swayed back in the saddle, trying to clear her vision as Peachblossom slowed to a trot of his own accord, swinging back around to the starting point. She could practically feel the bruises forming all along her left side, and grimaced behind her visor. _He's not going to make this easy for me. _Settling herself, she hefted her lance again, pumping it up and down to indicate readiness. _Well, I won't make it easy either._

Squeezing Peachblossom's flanks as he leaped into the next pass, she concentrated on her seat. Weeks of drilling with Lord Wyldon had firmed her leg muscles and strengthened her core; but more than that, she felt fluid, connected with the horse in perfect rhythm as they tore down the lane. Her point came down, and she set herself in the saddle just so, angling her shoulders and keeping her shield steady. He was mere paces away when, at the last second, she rocked back in the saddle and then _forward_, bringing all her weight to bear as she hit his shield squarely. For a moment he rose, feet dangerously close to leaving the stirrups - and then her lance shattered under the impact. His broke in half on the boss of her shield, and tumbled out in front of Peachblossom.

The horse stumbled, catching himself on one knee, and Kel felt herself pitch dangerously in the saddle. Then they were up again, Peachblossom rearing and snorting angrily, inches away from closing his tombstone teeth around the sweaty neck of Cavall's Heart. The crowd burst into a roar of surprise and outrage, and Wyldon quickly backed his warhorse out of range, dropping the rest of his lance to tear his helmet off.

"Is he all right?" he demanded, fear making him terse. "Shall I forfeit?"

Kel didn't have a chance to reply as two medics entered the field. They ran quickly to Peachblossom, who was shaking underneath her, braced on all fours and breathing hoarsely through foaming nostrils. Leaning forward, she could see his eyes rolling in his head, though whether from anger or pain she wasn't sure. At the approach of the horse medics, he reared again, screaming a challenge.

"Peachblossom! Curse it, be still!" Kel shouted. "Let them tend you." She realized her voice was trembling. If he'd hurt himself badly, Peachblossom might have to be put down. After all they had been through together, she didn't think she could bear that.

To take her mind off the hasty examination going on below, she glanced toward the stands. The spectators were in a frenzy, talking and milling around as they tried to determine if her horse was fit to continue, or what the judges would do with such an unorthodox circumstance. Blowing firmly out her nose, Kel closed her eyes and tried to keep from crying. _He's not dead yet, damn you, so don't cry!_

"Lady Knight?" One of the medics, assigned to the Own's horses, came to stand by her knee. "Your horse is going to be fine. He scraped his forelegs against milord's lance, but there's nothing the matter with his joints or tendons. It's up to you whether to continue or not."

Trying to get a grip on herself, Kel urged Peachblossom into a careful walk around to the starting line. His pace was ginger, but grew stronger as his confidence returned. Seeing his ears flicking wildly back and forth, she leaned forward and patted him.

"The decision's yours, boy," she told him. "Do you want to go ahead?"

Craning his neck to stare at her as though she were crazy, Peachblossom snorted and pawed the ground, tossing his mane. Kel grinned and turned him to face the lane. Wyldon still hesitated on Heart in the middle of the field, helmet tucked under the arm that bore her token, weathered face creased in concern. Her heart, already doing double-time from her scare, flip-flopped at the direct gaze of those brown eyes. Sighing at her foolishness – and immensely thankful that the silly grin pasted across her face was hidden by the helmet – she pumped her lance up and down.

The herald came up to confer with her, and then went to stand before the royal box, bowing low. "My lords and ladies, the Lady Knight's brave horse has suffered no lasting ill effects, and has…" (a polite cough), "indicated that he wishes to complete the joust. Lord Wyldon, Lady Kel, on my mark." He lifted the flag, holding it high in the sky on its long pole, and whipped it down, sprinting for the sidelines.

Without being asked, Peachblossom gathered himself for the final pass, and thundered down the lane. Kel settled herself a little belatedly, squeezing the lance butt against her side and trying to ignore the ache that pounded in her shield arm. _All that matters now is this. All that matters is Wyldon._

Time seemed to slow. Each stride pounded through her body, rattling her teeth and slamming the dirt with the force of Mithros' war hammer. She could feel each step through her body and right out her hand into the lance. Her teacher's words came back to her, even as she lowered the tip toward him. _**Feel**__ the lance, Keladry. It is a part of you, an extension of your very self. Fill it. Fill your horse. __**Be**__ your horse, be the lance. Focus. Breathe. _

In the space of a breath, though it felt far longer, she was upon her opponent. Peachblossom gathered himself for the final spring and surged forward even as she thrust her pelvis against the forward ridge of the saddle, clamped her fingers down, and _drove_ her lance at Wyldon's shield. The tip lodged directly in the center and a little underneath, at just the right spot. With an extra heave, she pushed all her weight, all of Peachblossom's weight, all their combined force into the lance, and _shoved_.

He was a pace behind her – it was too late. With the clank of armor and the rasp of boots leaving the stirrups, the greatest jouster in Tortall left the saddle and went flying.

Peachblossom stopped immediately, rearing to put a damper on his momentum as much as to keep Kel from falling off. She rid herself of her helmet to see better as her old training master twisted mid-air and slapped the ground in a clatter of metal. Dust exploded from the ground, and all was still.

Heart in her throat, Kel threw her lance away and nearly jumped from the saddle. Her knees nearly betrayed her – she hadn't realized how weak she'd become, though three rounds from Lord Wyldon was always more than enough to make her "tilt-silly" – but she leaned on Peachblossom until she regained her footing. Then, ignoring the scream in her left side as her muscles protested, she ducked under the barrier and knelt in the dirt at his side.

Painfully slow, Wyldon sat up, bracing himself with his arms.

"Sir? Are you okay?" Anxious and trying not to show it, Kel pressed her gauntleted hands against her armored thighs.

For answer, Wyldon pulled off his helmet to reveal a startlingly open, easy grin that transformed his worn face into that of a much younger man. Light brown eyes turned a twinkling amber by the sun, he held out his hand.

"Lady knight – well done. Very, very well done," he said, somehow managing to sound brisk and gentle at the same time. "Your horse is a credit to you."

Clinging to his hand, sudden shyness swept over Kel, and she tried to look away. But he freed himself and, pulling the gauntlet off with his teeth, pressed her chin with his hand to make her meet his steady gaze.

"I believe we had a wager, Keladry," he reminded her softly.

"Yes sir, we did," she whispered. Her throat was caked with dust, and she worked her mouth to get enough spit to swallow. "I'm sorry for taking so long – it's just, I was surprised. I didn't know you felt that way. Or at least, that you felt it strongly enough to… to marry me."

Stripping off his other gauntlet, still sitting in the dirt, Wyldon looked at her with confusion furrowing his brow. "To be perfectly honest, neither did I. And I want to be clear – this is a marriage of convenience. But," he went on, seeing her mouth tighten, "that is all the Court needs to know. I am sure it will not be enough to protect either of us, but it will have to do. You, Keladry," and he took her hand again, "are truest knight I know, and the truest woman. Somehow, you have managed to be both at once, Mithros alone knows how you do it."

A half-smile turned up one corner of her mouth. "I'm still not the kind of knight I want to be. I wish I were more like you, sir."

Wyldon shook his head. "No, Keladry. You're the kind of knight _I_ want to be. Somehow, in spite of my thick-headed, stiff-necked pride, I managed to realize that."

Awed and humbled by his words, Kel looked down, blinking to keep the tears at bay. _Why am I so emotional all of a sudden?_

His hand tightened around hers. "I know my letter was… sudden, and impersonal. And I apologize for that. I'd spoken with your father already, and there were some… things that needed to be arranged – a letter seemed appropriate. But I want you to know, whatever business arrangements I make with your father, _you_ are my priority. I'm so grateful for our time together this past month, and I want to continue it. Perhaps, if you work hard, you might get lucky enough to throw me again."

Kel shook her head, chuckling. "I don't know, sir. It might be a one-time thing."

"Perhaps." He smiled slightly, and she had to look down again to keep from showing the emotion on her face.

"I wanted to tell you, before I say anything else, that I _do_ accept your proposal," she said, managing to speak steadily as long as she didn't look up into his handsome face and become distracted. "But I also want to ask for time. I feel like I know you so well, and yet not at all. I'd like to know the man I'm marrying, if you don't mind," she explained, lips curving into a smile despite her Yamani mask. His low chuckle brought her head up, not wanting to miss the sparkle in his eyes, and as she did he leaned forward and caught her mouth with his.

She froze, caught entirely off guard. His lips were firm and sure on hers, and he tasted like tourney dust and sweat-salt, with the bitter after-tang of armor. Kel leaned into the kiss, savoring the taste of him, but he broke away gently.

"We do have an audience, you know," he reminded her. Much like a Yamani, his eyes laughed while the rest of him was still. Realizing what he had said, she blushed a deep red and scrambled to her feet.

"Do you need assistance?" she asked, covering her embarrassment with a business-like tone of voice.

"Certainly not. I haven't lost all my dignity," he informed her stiffly, getting to his feet. Straightening, he winced and twisted his back until it cracked. "That's better." He glanced down at his arm as though recognizing the handkerchief affixed there for the first time. "I believe this is yours, Mindelan."

She bit back a laugh. "You may keep it, sir. I'll need new ones soon, anyway." He glanced at her quizzically. "I believe gray and black will be more appropriate in a few months," she explained, naming the colors of fief Cavall.

Another delighted smile lit up his face, and her heart did another somersault as he bowed courteously. "I believe you may be right." Heart nudged his shoulder, and he lifted his hand to tickle the whiskers of the warhorse's muzzle. "Ought we go and see who won the match, then?"

Snorting, Kel ducked back under the barrier and swung onto the patiently-waiting Peachblossom. He blew his lips at her, complaining at her slow pace, and she leaned forward to pat him. "You did so beautifully today," she whispered. "Extra oats for you tonight, and a special bath." His ears pricked up in pleasure, and Kel laughed. Then Wyldon, riding Heart with an ease that belied his recent tumble, came up beside her, and together they rode to the stands for the verdict.

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you squee as much reading this as I did writing it! I felt like I was treading a thin line between "ew, gag, he's too old and it's too fast" and "d'awwwww." Anyway, happy almost-4th of July for you Americans - our neighbors two doors down just had some freaking amazing fireworks - and go read my other Tortall fics! And review of course, lol, if you feel so inclined ;D. 3 DR<br>**


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